


second to the right, and straight on 'til morning

by destronomics



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destronomics/pseuds/destronomics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things Russian whiz kids are good at. This is not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second to the right, and straight on 'til morning

_31\. Chekov, there are no stupid questions_

"It's all right, really--"

"--no, I will do better. I can do better."

Uhura had laughed and Chekov had to consciously remind himself that it was not directed _at_ him. He is proud, a little, that he didn't remind himself out loud, and only had to blush, hard, at his feet clumsily overlapping hers.

"You are lucky that you have boots," He sighs and sags against her, right hand clammy where she held it aloft.

"Oh, stop. You honestly think the waltz has survived this many centuries without a _little_ creative license?"

"I do not think stepping on your ankle counts as 'creative license'."

Uhura grinned. "Oh, the stories I could te--" Uhura's eyes flick for a moment to a spot just behind Chekov's head and he tries not remind himself that bars tend to have patrons other than hapless Russians and the patient, if not masochistic, comm officers who try to teach them to dance. It's probably someone she knows with the kind of smile she rewards whomever Chekov can't see, just then, eyes pointed resolutely above the cut of her civilian dress.

And if it's someone Uhura knows it's probably someone Chekov knows and he could just then, really, really die. No shore leave is worth this.

"Please, please tell me it's not Sulu."

"No, no, don't worry. Just the Captain--"

"_Chyort voz--!_"

Uhura raises an eyebrow and Chekov cuts himself off and tries not to hate her for the talented tongue that seems to go along with her talented feet. Hers seem to be set on gliders but all his can manage are abortive, off-beat shuffles. Except one foot is now no longer on the ground, but colliding into Uhura's shin with enough force that she matches his abortive curse with a more complete and creative one, and in Tellerite.

Chekov feels like the worst person in the world.

"All right," Her smile turns on a 45 degree angle so she's half frowning too, like she does when she concentrates on a particularly tenuous subspace wave form. Not that Chekov watches her work often enough that he has all shades of her smile cataloged. At all. _Shut up Sulu_.

"Emergency measures it is, close your eyes."

"What?" Chekov blinks dumbly at her because he may be stupid at this one thing, but that seems, well. "What?" He repeats again.

"Close 'em."

But it's Uhura so Chekov listens, not because she's a senior officer, but because she's Uhura and never laughs at him and that's something you learn to appreciate at 17 years old and a brain too large for your self-esteem.

He feels her right hand grip his tighter to pull him closer, and her hair fall against his cheek because she's leaning in to whisper in a language he can understand: "You know the coordinates to Ceti Alpha from the Sol system, right?"

When he nods, the hair on his cheek slips to his neck.

"So show me."

So he does.


End file.
